Tuesday, February 16, 2010

I don't do this often, but in this case I will. Our cat, Buster, passed away last night in his sleep. I got him when I lived alone in New Jersey in 1995 (he was one year old, or so the guess went). He had been being fed by a man with Alzheimer's who kept forgetting that he had to feed the twelve cats that hung around his house. Buster was taken to a shelter, where I adopted him. He was a very cool cat, more friendly than most, the constant hunter for a lap to sit on. My wife and kid came to love him immensely, for good reason. In any case, his death prompted me to search out a poem that I used to love by Charles Bukowski (I'm not usually a fan). I link to the poem here. Those lines about the influence of Celine and all are just fantastic. And so in memory of Buster: